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Corner Store Carol

The little corner grocery store is empty when you come in, the bell over the door drawing no attention. She hurries from a back room, quickly looking you over in the process, gives you a seductive greened-eyed gaze, her eyes looking into yours but burning you between your legs. You can smell the feminine fire drifting out from under her tight little black skirt when she leans over the counter, holding your change in her right hand. Her softly-curled and black, shoulder-length hair is set in a 'I've just-had-terrific-sex' manner of unruliness that many people recognize as orgasmic-styled...where the long hair of a sensual
woman becomes electrified through intense pleasure and seems to cling together in straight, tight
strands. You hear from her the sounds of heavy breathing, the short gasps a signal that her strong legs had recently been forcefully responding to extreme pleasure. As her right hand drops the change unto your palm, you notice that her left hand is sticky and moist. She notices you staring at the stickiness and licks the substance off. Her mouth remains open, tongue slightly protruding, so you can see how it coats her tongue. She closes her mouth and swallows, her face the portrait of a woman who has just tasted her utmost desire. Her eyes plead with you; she wants to share with you how wonderful that stickiness tastes. She recognizes that you cannot share with her the taste of the pleasure-produced fluid that oozes down
her throat, however. So she offers you some of herself, instead: Her right hand sliding under her
skirt for a moment while she arranges items on the counter with her left, is swiftly withdrawn... dripping with feminine pleasure. It is the moisture of recent female climax, you realize. She picks up a small, plain, uncoated cookie from the counter with that hand, the juice from within her lovingly transferred to the cookie. She holds out the hand with the cookie, silently offering you the plain taste of it combined with the
coating of her. You quickly accept the cookie, put it into your mouth. You feel so ALIVE from the
pleasure you taste there. She smiles at you, knowing that she has shared with you the sweetness of the results of her recent coupling with another. The taste of her is so wonderful that you cannot move. 

She understands. She exits from behind the counter so that you may get a full view of her. She is about 5'3" and 100 pounds, perfectly-formed, hourglass, goddess-like figure...exquisite in every possible way that would make a woman sensual and beautiful. She is a female to be worshipped. She walks up to you now. Standing right before you, she pauses for a moment, looks to the direction of the restroom. She paces out
the ten steps necessary to get there with the grace of one who has walked the platforms of beauty contests, her hips swaying in perfection, her tight rear craving to be adored by you. The fire between her legs the target for your tongue, it lashing out for the taste of this truly private part of her. You would accept any
punishment to be in that position: on your knees, she facing you, your tongue exploring deeply and strong with the taste of her there. 

She is only a moment in the restroom. You, understanding her signal, walk past her and into the restroom yourself. The room is spotless, nothing out of place except the bright red panties you find there. The cotton crotch is wet, dripping...you find when you pick them up. They are the essence of the woman who has just
left this tiny space, you fully comprehend; that is why you put them to your face and squeeze the dampness of them into every pore there. A few drops trickle onto your lips. Your tongue accepts them. You taste the saltiness of her. It is different than the climax-flavor of the cookie she gave you; this is the taste of her
from much further within. The still-damp panties, her gift to you for understanding and accepting her need to wordlessly share her pleasure, are now worn by you, your own undergarment thrown into the trash by the sink. You leave the restroom, her panties seeping her dampness from between your legs. 

She is waiting four steps away, changing a sign from $3.99 to one that reads $3.85. The sign advertises a feminine product. She smiles at you as you walk past her once again. You smile in return and pretend to inspect a grocery product. You squeeze the melon in your hand, gently, pretending it is the breast of this woman who now reenters the restroom once more. How you would love to suck the milk from the breast of this woman, you think, still squeezing the melon. Less than a minute later, she exits the lavatory
again. It is your turn again, you realize. This time a pair of nylons lay on the sink. They are sheer and seamless. No defects other than that they, like the red panties before them, are quite wet. This is the leg sweat of raw, lengthy sex, you know from experience. The type of action where a woman's legs are spread wide and held high in the air to allow entry, precision and endurance forming sweat on her legs, the sweat
driven into the fabric of the nylons she had been wearing all through the event.

You lick all the wetness off the nylons before you rub the aroma of her feet into your face with them. You watch yourself in the mirror as you carefully hide the nylons inside your purse. You notice how gorgeous you are, your image reflected in the full-length mirror; why men say you are such a beautiful woman. Of course, you HATE the men for telling you that... You would rather that men didn't talk to you at all, for that matter. You leave the restroom again...silently walk past the woman of your deepest desires, noticing that the name tag she wears on her blouse says Carol. You read in bold, block letters, the name of the little grocery store on the corner--CAROL & SUSAN'S--as your high heels slam the pavement in departing despair, each step taking you closer to home and impatiently-waiting, non-comprehending husband and son but understanding, tolerant, supporting daughters. You say to yourself, still enjoying the dampness of her seeping through her panties you now wear, its warmth trickling down your legs and exciting you still, "What a lucky woman Susan is." And, "If only the choice was truly mine."

(c) Greg Smith 1998
All Rights Reserved